The art of moving – Portugal Resident

In fact, they have christened me “heels with wheels” because apparently, I don’t just walk through life, I happen to roll right through it!

I admit I was born with an internal compass that refuses to point towards home because the moment I become comfortable somewhere, my mind starts panicking, you see. It is not restlessness, mind you, but a curious kind of wanderlust that compels me to travel.

Some people are happiest when they have unpacked, arranged the cushions, found the perfect spot for the television remote and memorised the Wi-Fi password.

Well, I am not one of them because I start feeling fidgety within minutes of putting the last suitcase away, and start wondering what is around the corner.

Maybe I inherited this from childhood, when every family outing mysteriously became an expedition, and a simple drive for milk involved three detours, a scenic route, an argument over directions, and tea at a place nobody remembered passing before. It was called getting lost, even though I feel nostalgic about it now and prefer to describe it as allowing the universe to edit the itinerary beautifully.

However, one must acknowledge that there is something wonderfully addictive about moving. The anticipation begins before the journey and involves packing, repacking, weighing the baggage, removing the unnecessary pairs of shoes, and so on.

Then come the airports, which are essentially enormous waiting rooms filled with people pretending they are organised but where everyone is dragging something behind them, including children, husbands, dogs, pets and other emotional baggage.

Perhaps that is why Sean Connery’s words resonate with me so much. He famously said, “I haven’t found anywhere in the world where I want to be all the time. The best of my life is the moving. I look forward to going.” Quote, unquote!

I look forward to going too. Oh, so much. It is not necessarily the destination that excites me, but I happen to like the actual process of going. Like the train pulling out of a station, a taxi heading towards the airport, the first glimpse of a coastline from the airplane window … that sort of thing. I enjoy being in the midst of a journey more than the final completion of it.

Also, every trip introduces me to a fresh version of myself along with teaching me humility. I have learnt that one’s carefully planned itinerary is merely a suggestion and trains can be late, flights delayed, luggage lost and weather apps display untruths, but one has to exercise patience and train the mind to keep cool in tenuous circumstances.

Still, I would rather move than merely wait for life to happen because it is mysteriously thrilling to not know exactly what comes next and probably that is the real art of going. Not running away, but inching closer towards a possibility. So, yes, I like the leaving, the arriving, the detours and the stories in between. If life insists on being a journey, I might as well enjoy the ride.

“Enjoy the ride,” repeats my granddaughter as I realise I have spoken aloud.

“Ok, sweetheart,” I chuckle, juggling her in my lap.

“Are you going off again, Nani?” she lisps.

“Yes darling, I have heels with wheels remember?” I laugh.

Read Nickunj Malik’s last month’s article: The fourth turn